


XVII (I Do Not Love You...)

by TheStraggletag



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: But with a happy ending, Dark, F/M, Mistress!Belle, Mob Boss!Gold, RCIJ 2018, Rumbelle Christmas in July 2018
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-06-14 22:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15398649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStraggletag/pseuds/TheStraggletag
Summary: Years ago she discovered he wasn't who she thought he was. Years later he discovered she wasn't, either.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rebel_diamond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebel_diamond/gifts).



She looked different, in ways he couldn't quite pinpoint out. There were some obvious physical changes, a sharpness to her features- she had lost a bit of the roundness around her face, and looked thinner than he remembered-, a few lines around her eyes and a shocking streak of white in her hair, which she nervously stride to tuck in beneath the rest of her hair, to better hide it. She was as elegant as ever, in that effortless way that had so attracted him, even in ratty jeans and a hoodie, things he would've never thought she'd have in her closet if he didn't know she was fond of hiking every now and then. He presumed it was the case still.

She was dirty and dishevelled, very unlike her, and strangely exhausted, her nerves frayed. Her hand shook the slightest bit as she took a sip of tea Lumiere had provided for them. He chastised himself for still keeping around the blend of osmanthus black tea, her favourite. He took a sip of his own Russian Caravan, hoping she could not smell it all the way over there. She'd been the one to introduce him to it.

He'd forgotten.

"I assume this isn't a social call."

He swallowed the smirk threatening to spread across his face when he saw her wring her hands together, her increasing nervousness putting him at ease. When they had last met she'd held all the power, and there had been nothing he could say to dissuade her from using it to end their relationship. In the months after it was all over he'd accumulated a hundred and one things he wishes he'd said when she'd told him she couldn't be with him after discovering the truth about him. Mostly about how she must have known, deep inside, and chosen to disregard it. About how she'd been lying to herself about him and she'd been upset with him for making it impossible for her to keep on fooling herself, happy in her forced, pretend ignorance.

He'd moved past it, of course. Had let those perfect comebacks and rebuttals go, lost in a haze of drink first and work later, until she'd been but a hazy thought that passed through his head right before sleep and nothing more. In the back of his head, however, the urge to have one last confrontation with Belle French, to regain the upper hand, had always festered.

Not anymore after tonight, though.

"I need help."

"That much is obvious."

Though his voice was soft, his words weren't. The moment Lumiere had told him the name of his impromptu visitor he'd known she was here to make a deal. A desperate soul without any other recourse or hope. And he wasn't in the business of being kind or accommodating with such people. It was best, he'd found, to make things clear from the get-go in such cases, lest he waste his time or give false hope.

"I remember you being kinder."

"You remember wrong, then. But you're not here to reminisce, so let's not."

With careful, calculated movements meant to look and seem fluid and relaxed he reached for his cigarette case, taking his time to remove and light one, taking a slow drag afterwards. In front of him Belle pursed her lips slightly and he remembered with more than a bit of glee how much she hated the smell of cigarette smoke. It tended to trigger a migraine. More than once while they dated he had come close to freezing his balls off smoking out in the balcony of her apartment. He'd been happy to do it back then. Now he couldn't even muster the interest to blow the smoke to the side.

He knew she was expecting him to say anything, to give her an opening, but he did nothing. It was better to do very little talking when dealing. In his experience it was best to let the other party do most of the talking at first. Their anxiety tended to work against them. Though he thought he'd have to wait more than usual for the trick to work on Belle- she could be endlessly patient, for all that she was also impulsive- she seemed to crack after only a moment or two.

"Vivienne Lake's coming for me."

He hadn't expected that. Didn't know what he had imagined had driven Belle to him- something awful, for sure, but he imagined some money trouble, perhaps unpaid gambling debts left behind by Moe French, who'd passed away last year- but it certainly hadn't involved someone from his line of work. Particularly a big name like Vivienne Lake, who had been at this game for as long as he could remember and had quite the vast empire to the east, just out of his own territory. He felt a flicker of fear, but quickly stamped it down.

"Do elaborate."

Though he could tell she wasn't telling the whole story- Clever girl- she did disclose having come across some incriminating information about Vivienne. And since then she'd started suffering accidents, from a near-fatal car malfunction to a gas leak that she'd caught just in time. Nothing too obvious, but things were getting increasingly less and less subtle.

"I fail to see how this has led you to my doorstep instead of the nearest police station, though if I were you I'd go with the FBI. They tend to handle the likes of Vivienne."

The likes of him.

She had tried, of course. Like the upstanding citizen she was she had gone to an FBI friend she had, Emma Swan- her name was familiar... a rising hotshot in the CCRSB, if he was not mistaken- had tried to go to her superiors with the information and secure her protective custody or some other arrangement, but the information had been deemed insufficient to act upon and none of the "accidents" she had suffered had been considered suspicious enough, nor had any conclusive evidence of foul play been found. Not even when her library had been burned down.

"Preliminary reports talk of faulty wiring."

The sarcasm in her voice made her Australian accent thicker, something he vaguely remembered finding endearing years ago.

"Vivienne certainly has quite the reach. I do see the problem."

It puzzled him a bit, though, that no one at the FBI had wanted to take a crack at Lake, especially if the whole fiasco had caught the attention of a young and driven FBI agent, eager to make a name for herself. And he was quite sure Esther Gorm down at the DOJ had been dying to prosecute Lake for years. He could not imagine that gnat leaving any stone unturned, no matter how little evidence there seemed to be.

"I just... I've exhausted all my other options. I've tried everything else I could think of, but no one will take me seriously and, at this point, it's safe to say that whatever she comes up with next will do the trick. I barely got out of my apartment as it was."

Ah, yes, she lived on top of the Storybrooke Library. He wondered briefly how she'd come across incriminating information on a major mob boss while living in such a sleepy little town. One under his indirect control, even. He wondered briefly if it wouldn't be prudent to have a talk with Lake about boundaries and respect.

"I assume the damage was very extensive? Vivienne does like to be thorough, for all that she lacks finesse."

Her hands clenched into fists in her lap and, to his faint horror, her eyes became shiny, wet. He tensed, unprepared for the possibility of tears. Belle's tears, specially. Watching her struggle for composure was bad enough, though she pulled herself together admirably. The Belle hew used to know was a lot more open with her emotions, less skilled at keeping them concealed, or at least less inclined to.

"I see. I may be a monster, but I'm a useful one now, aren't I? That's what's changed. How... convenient."

That particular insult had cut deep, specially the way she had said it, with a heap of disgust and a hint of fear. The years hadn't made him any less monstrous... quite the contrary. He'd pleaded with her then, shown weakness like he could never remember showing in front of anyone in his life... and she'd walked away. Walked away like it was easy, like their relationship meant nothing.

Turnabout seemed like fair play.

Abruptly, though, she stood up, going unexplainably tense for a moment before fumbling for her purse, saying how coming there had been "a mistake" and she was "sorry to have wasted his time". A flash of red caught his eye then, a blooming stain spreading across her hoodie. Blood. She was hurt.

Of course she was.

The reality of it seemed to click into place for him then, sobering him up in an instant. He shoved his gloating pride to a side, thinking about the situation in a rational manner. It all could serve a purpose, of course. Though he was not in the habit of flexing his muscles and getting into petty little struggles the way others of his kind were fond of doing he knew the value of a careful display of power. His empire was small compared to the rest because he chose to keep it that way, best remind everyone that he was not to be toyed with, no matter what an unassuming facade he put on most days. Vivienne, above all, could use the reminder that she wasn't a match for him.

"Sit down, dearie, no need to be dramatic. The way I see it there's a deal to be made here, one that can easily benefit us both."

Though she looked half-inclined to high-tail it out of there she sat down, unable to hide a grimace as she pulled on whatever wound she had on her stomach.

"What could you possibly want from me?"

He talked, in vague terms, about the importance of his image, how appearance was paramount in his line of business. There was a reason why his main bodyguard was a hulking beast of a man, and why he wore bespoke suits wherever he went. It was how the game was played, and he was an accomplished player. Alas, there were some thing he was missing. Like a mistress, for example.

"Oh, come on, don't look so affronted. I'm not interested in sniffing around where I'm obviously not wanted. If I have an itch to scratch I go where I'm appreciated, I assure you. But the matter is that a... well-kept mistress does lend a businessman like me more credibility. Someone to look pretty, stay by my side, keep an ear out for gossip and the like. All very useful things. No one need know it's all in name only."

"Would that really be all that useful to you?"

She seemed honestly doubtful, as if unsure she'd be offering much in the bargain. How like Belle, to make a deal to save her life and worry about it being fair for the other party.

"I don't think you can appreciate how... lonely, this life I lead can get. Loyalty and companionship are highly-coveted prizes, and their value is considerable. I know you to be incredibly loyal, to a fault, and honourable. If you give me your word I know you'll keep it. I've never doubted that about you. It was your heart that was fickle. Luckily for me I don't need to rely on it anymore."

He smirked as he watched Belle figuratively and almost literally bite her tongue and swallow whatever protest was on the tip of her tongue. He derived a strange sort of pleasure from it, but on the back of his mind it felt wrong, somehow. Very far removed from the Belle he knew once, bold and brave enough to challenge him, to call him out on things, even after she learned of his true nature.

"Do we have a deal then, dearie?"

The stain on her shirt was growing to a worrying size and he knew from experience that with so much blood loss she was bound to be getting woozy. Best have it all hammered out before she couldn't think straight anymore. There would be no turning back if she agreed, no taking it back. He watched her shift through her options and come up short, likely arriving to the conclusion that there was no better path, no other card to play. It was likely she'd already decided on that before ever stepping foot in his residence, before ever contacting Dove in the first place to take her to him.

"We do."


	2. Chapter 2

"No, no, fetch the new Montblanc cufflinks. Haven't had a chance to wear them yet."

Royce straightened the already immaculate lines of his evening suit. It was a classic continental tuxedo, a Brioni staple. Nothing like the flashier eveningwear he was likely to see in most of his associates but, then again, that was the idea, to contrast their shinier fabrics and modern cuts with his one sleek elegance. For a bit of flair, he needed only a boldly-colour kerchief and the lapis-lazuli cufflinks he'd sent Lumiere for.

He could hear the faint sound of feminine voices coming from the other side of the bedroom wall, Paloma's heavy French accent merging pleasantly with Belle's Australian tang.

It was strange, at first, having someone else in his manor. The house itself was never empty, of course. Though the maids only staid for the four hours it took them to clean the house Mrs Potts was always around, as well as Lumiere, his butler/head of security, and a number of his men, though they mostly guarded the exterior. There were always other people coming and going at all times, but few that had access to the whole manor in the way he allowed Belle to have. She had her own room, of course, in the same part of the house were his was, but it wasn't unusual to find her in his study, the library or other rooms where he was used to being alone.

No one had questioned her appearance, but he knew word had spread about the lovely beauty living in his home. And lovely she was, no question about it. He had thought so years ago when he'd first met her, in her twenties, but he thought so more now, that age had sharpened her features slightly and maturity enhanced her natural elegance. This was only enhanced by the new wardrobe she had acquired right after moving in, necessary not just for her to play her part but also because she owned little clothing from before that wasn't singed or perpetually smelling of smoke. Paloma, a stylist that was under his indirect control, had done a wonderful job, though he could see behind most choices Belle's own tastes and preferences peeking through. The one thing he had been consulted on had been her hair, in particular the white streak that she had acquired after their initial parting. Inexplicably he liked it and told her to keep it.

"Makes you seem less of a walking middle age crisis, in any case."

Though it had begun as an impulsive whim, Royce was surprised to find that the passing of time didn't bring regret, but rather certainty. As he had expected Belle had risen to the occasion with all the aplomb and cleverness he knew she possessed. Their first outings were simple dinner dates, just the two of them, a subtle way of showing her around. Belle was naturally a social person so despite the bitter history between them it was easy for her to engage him in conversation and remain fresh and natural, though he could tell the few affectionate gestures- a peck on the cheek as she slipped towards the restroom, a hand on his thigh as she leaned forward to listen to whatever he was saying- were stilted, somewhat awkward.

"Is Paloma just about done?"

Royce fastened the cufflinks himself, while Lumiere fussed around putting things away and muttering about a missing clothes brush. There was something between the stylist and his butler, he knew. Something that had grown in spite of Paloma's initial fear and disgust over a bargain she'd made in order to be able to afford the life-saving surgery that her little brother had needed around five years ago. She was a long way from paying things back, but she no longer seemed bitter about the arrangement, specially considering the doors he'd opened for her, the connections she'd been able to profit from and make her one of the youngest and most profitable personal stylists in NYC.

"It appears so."

The Frenchman helped him with his coat, a heavy double-breasted Zegna he favoured when the weather was particularly cold, before retiring. Though he had long-ago installed an elevator inside the manor for those times where his leg made it an absolute necessity, he took the stairs, which he knew would afford him a first look at her. He knew, the moment she moved in, that it would be stupid to expect not to feel attraction for her. Belle was, objectively, beautiful, and exactly in the way that most appealed to him: petit, with chestnut hair, big eyes and a delicate profile. For the most part he'd managed to make peace with it, to regard her as a lovely new piece of art that he could enjoy without things getting... messy. But this evening he felt it'd be wiser to drink her in from afar, brace himself in some way. He wasn't wrong, of course.

Paloma had outdone herself. The dress was, objectively, a piece of art, likely Atelier Versace, in shades of pale blue and gold that complimented Belle's fair skin perfectly. Her hair was up, a braid wrapped around her head as if it were a crown, and she wore simple diamond studs on her ears and a couple of rings, with no other adornment. The dress left an entire arm bare, and had a daring slit that showed quite a bit of her left leg bare. It was an oddly proper and not at the same time, depending on where he looked at it from and what he took into consideration and he drunk it all in greedily, deciding it was better to get an eyeful now and get it over with than catch tantalising glimpses of it all evening.

It was strange attending an event with someone at his side, but he found himself enjoying the experience. Belle was a warm comfort by his side, charming but reserved, knowing exactly when to speak and how to keep the conversation safely superficial, side-stepping the questions or topics that she felt were dangerous with ease. She observed too, he could tell, taking in details while looking like her attention was solely on him and the Bellini she was sipping from. The only hint he had of her trepidation, her hidden fear of the powerful people all around her, was the way she sometimes pressed closer to his side. Better the devil she knew and all that.

He got a perverse player out of watching James Spencer ogling Belle as they danced. Albert Spencer, his father, had high hopes for the boy. The family money was dirty through and through and the lineage common as dirt but for some reason Spencer Sr thought himself better than others, specially him. He had ambitions of marrying James to a good, solid name, perhaps a lesser Vanderbilt, someone with the name and respect but without the money, which he could provide. But Royce knew better. Albert Spencer was a mobster through and through, and no amount of good connections would teach that old dog new tricks. He was the same, in a way, only he didn't lie to himself, didn't aspire to change who he was. He'd done that enough as a child, trying to please his father. After that he'd promised himself never to do it again. And yet he'd almost broken that promise. For Belle.

"Ruby would kill for that red dress, it's so her."

He glanced to a side, noticing the red McQueen Belle was looking at. For a second, he was tempted to ask about her friends, but he thought better of it in the end. From what he'd gathered no one in her social circle had approved of her seeking his help, either taking the threat to Belle's life too lightly or thinking that she should've trusted Agent Swan's promise of keeping her safe. They had cut her off as a sign of their disapproval.

Perhaps he should throw Belle's medical report in their faces, detailing every burn and lesion she'd suffered in the fire. Should send them the heaping boxes of ashes that had once been her dearest possessions, the useless remains of the photo album containing all but one picture of Belle's mother, whose face she had trouble remembering. Perhaps then the sanctimony would give way to some of that generosity of spirit her friends were supposed to have.

His thoughts dwelled briefly on agent Swan, something tugging at the edges of his consciousness. Something fishy about the story Belle had told him, something he couldn't quite grasp yet. Perhaps he'd have to put the Hatter to work, let him earn his keep.

Belle tensed up suddenly in his arms, eyes wise and focused on something over his shoulders. As he turned them around he spotted Vivienne Lake in a blue-green strapless J Mendel, some pampered boy-toy at her side. She didn't keep them for long, like to rotate them every now and then, but they were always big, baby-faced and obsequious. Glancing around the room he saw he wasn't the only one surprised that she was there, which meant Lumiere got to live despite providing bad intel.

"She wasn't supposed to come. We can leave, if you want."

It's not what he wished, not what would be good for him. Any display of weakness in front of Vivienne was unacceptable, more so when he had all the tools to make a power move instead. Make it clear that she only operated the way she did because he let her and that the moment he drew a line, she was expected to respect it. If he chose to flaunt a person of interest who presented a danger to her and her empire he expected her to smile, play nice and deal with it. Be a good girl.

But having Belle trembling lightly in his arms made him make stupid decisions like decide to give up on a scheme in order to give her a bit of comfort. To try and be the knight in shining armour he very well knew he wasn't. For the first time since the beginning of their little arrangement Gold found himself doubting the wisdom of it, feeling it left him somewhat exposed.

"No, it's okay. I'm okay."

Though her fingernails sunk into his shoulder and hand her face was calm, almost placid, and there was something strangely glacial about her expression. Nothing he ever remembered seeing before. Suddenly it was as if he was dancing with a stranger. Someone who looked like Belle, and felt like Belle, but was somewhat... shaper. Harder. Composed, for certain.

"I wasn't planning on coming here tonight but I must admit I grew curious about the rumours. Couldn't quite believe the solitary Mr Gold finally got around to acquiring some... companionship. Expensive companionship, I can see."

Vivienne's smile was brittle, the sort that would send small children running away in tears. She was beautiful, but past her prime. She had lived a hard life as well and the years and the bitterness had left deep marks on her face that no airbrushing foundation could possibly erase. He could empathise, to a certain extent. He knew what it was to grow up powerless and abused, and what it was to desire the means to protect himself, the comfort and safety that money and influence could bring. But he had never enjoyed pain for its own sake, had never liked to inflict it without a reason, nor was he ambitious for more than he could enjoy. Vivienne was another story.

"Ah, Vivienne. Heard around town you were wisely trying to keep a low profile. Spencer will be flattered to know you thought his little soiree too important to miss."

Spencer was small change compared to either of them, which made the comment all the more insulting.

"Well, the food's always good and I thought a night out would do me good. Fetch me a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, darling, while I slip into the restroom for a minute." Like the clever little viper, she was she moved suddenly, linking her arm through Belle's as if they were old friends. The brunette stiffened, jaw visibly tight, but said nothing. "Show me the way, darling, and let's get to know each other a little bit. Some mindless girl talk before the boring business discussions and grandstanding begins."

There would be no better show of power than letting Belle go with Vivienne without saying anything, making it clear he held her string so tight he could let them both out of his sight, confident that Vivienne would not dare cross him. And he was almost certain she wouldn't. It would not be the smart thing to do and Lake knew it, knew she was, at the end of the day, no match for him and what he could do, if he so desired. But there was always a wild sort of side to her, a meanness that could sometimes lead her to do what was not in her best interests. The impulse then to held onto Belle and mutter some excuse about another dance or some other nonsense was strong. But, instead, he let go, pushing down the vile gathering on the back of his mouth. It was for the best, and if Belle had thought things would be different than this it was better to dissuade her, to remind her of just what kind of monster she had fled from in disgust years ago.

He ordered a whiskey from a passing server and made light conversation with Ingrid Fryse, whose money-laundering services were beyond reproach, and the only competent alternative to the Russians. She was easy to identify, since she always wore white, for some unfathomable reason. If she noticed him glancing towards the restrooms she did not mention it and had just excused herself to take a call when he caught a glimpse of Vivienne. Though she smiled and laughed at something an associate told her there was something off about her. Her movements where a bit brusque, almost angry. Nothing too obvious, but she wasn't hard to read. Not to him, at least.

It took him a bit longer to spot Belle. She was also watching Vivienne, with something akin to bitter satisfaction in her eyes. He was against struck with he notion that the woman who had accompanied him to the party looked like Belle, talked like Belle, but was not quite Belle.

It wasn't until they were safely ensconced back in his town car on the way home that he dared ask about what happened in the restroom, frowning when she shrugged and said they'd just talked.

"What could you possibly have talked about?"

"Merle was committed to taking Vivienne down, no one who knew him doubted it even though they had been childhood friends. Some people implied otherwise but I knew he meant it. When he told me what he knew about her, though, he wanted to make sure I knew how hard life had been for her, what had shaped her into the woman she was. He wanted to do right by her. Felt it was easy to paint her as a monster but that it wouldn't be fair, not to the abused child she'd been." He saw her wipe the make-up off her hand. Paloma had made a marvellous job of concealing the minor burns still visible, including the one in her hand. Though it was still pink the scare tissue looked healthy. "It was just the sort of person he was. Even after all he wanted to do right by her. Show compassion, understanding. He wasn't the sort to think about how that information could be used against her, as a weapon. Or perhaps he thought I wasn't the sort of woman to do that."

She smiled, a sad sort of gesture.

"But he always thought I was too clever, so who knows? Perhaps he did mean to give me something to use against her, if I ever needed it. Perhaps he thought she was too far gone to feel anything at all. She broke the bathroom mirror, so I'm pretty sure that's not true, though."

It was hard to reconcile the image he had of Belle- compassionate, forgiving to a fault- with the woman sitting next to him, staring off into the city streets, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

Midnight rendezvous were, by nature, a tricky affair, and he wasn't surprised to come home late with a couple of new injuries, one or two which were likely to scar. He briefly contemplated waking up Mrs Potts- his suit jacket and shirt might un unsalvageable, but he liked to think his torso wasn't- but remembered later it was her time of the month with Chip. The boy went to boarding school but once a month Mrs Potts would yank him out on a Friday and spend the whole weekend with him. She planned the outing carefully and always made sure that the house would run smoothly in her absence, but the replacement cook had no notion of first aid like Mrs Potts did. She had sewn up more skin than fabric at that point, patching up his men with a careful precision and no-nonsense attitude that made her invaluable.

He made it to his room before the dizziness overtook him completely and he fell heavily against a wall, knocking down an antique Sevres decorative lamp in the process. Suddenly he felt sweaty and out of breath, shivering faintly from what he knew was blood loss and not actual cold, and too sluggish to move back up. He needed a few minutes, is all, to get himself back together. Just a few minutes and he'd call Lumiere, even though the man had no bedside manner to speak of and seemed to inflict pain rather than take it away. Just a few minutes...

"Royce? Wake up, come on. There it is, just so. Come on, just keep your eyes open."

He'd woken up to the sound of that Australian lilt hundreds of times before. It reassured him, made him feel safe. He took stock of his body, noticing the dull ache where the cuts were. They couldn't be too deep, though, since he'd stopped bleeding. Beside him he saw Belle, hair mussed from sleep and wearing sleeping pants and a tank-top, a woollen cardigan thrown in hastily, almost slipping from one of her shoulders. She was unbuttoning his shirt and lifting up his undershirt to inspect the damage. Most of the scars were familiar to her, though he knew there were one or two new to her.

"This is gonna hurt."

He'd failed to notice the amber bottle of antiseptic on the floor next to him until she drenched a folded strip of gauze in it and began to clean the two stab wounds. He howled in pain at first, lashed out like the wounded animal he was, but she simply shushed him and petted his hair until he managed to get a hold of himself.

"Don't move, this won't take long. I promise."

He could tell she was being careful, thoroughly disinfecting the area while trying to cause the least amount of pain possible, and so he gritted his teeth and kept still for her. After a while, when the pain dulled and let him concentrate on something else, he began watching her as she applied butterfly stitches with careful precision that spoke of experience.

"My dad was clumsy, and being a florist, he was often handling shears, knifes and such. Mom usually patched him up so when she died I just took over for her. There was never enough money for superficial trips to the ER."

She placed the last stitch with care, after which she stood up and left the room. For a moment he thought she meant to leave him, but a second later she was back, with a glass of water and a couple of pills. Wordlessly he took them, swallowing the medicine without giving it a second thought. He could not remember a time in his life where he'd felt safe. Certainly not with his father, or with Zoso years later when he joined his organisation as a young pup. With years and careful moves, he'd managed to amass an empire, and had made sure that he bought himself as much safety as he could. And though he surrounded himself with people he knew on a rational level he could trust, he preferred to be on his guard.

He'd thought, back when he'd made the deal with Belle, that whatever ability she'd had to make him vulnerable had evaporate with the end of their relationship. And he'd managed to keep her at arm’s length at first, his instincts of self-preservation recognising the potential threat she could be. But something had changed after the party, though he couldn't quite tell what at the beginning. He found himself studying Belle more and more the following weeks, trying to decipher the little mystery she represented. Most of the time she saw Belle as he remembered her, as he knew her to be: sweet, understanding, compassionate, empathetic. Though she had kept to herself at first, as he had expected her to do, she soon began to seek out others. He'd let her, thinking that sooner or later she'd be forced to look past Lumiere's charming accent and Dove's gentle nature and face the notion that both men had killed and probably would in the future. That Mrs Potts had poisoned the man who'd killed her daughter, who also happened to be Chip's father. That's how she'd come to work for him, once upon a time.

He'd waited, patiently, for the moment where she'd realise that all of them were like him. Criminals. Monsters. People with blood on their hands and a rap sheet a mile long. But the moment hadn't come, or at least he had not been able to detect any change in Belle, even though he'd made sure she caught enough glimpses of the truth.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Unhurriedly she helped him up, managing between the both of them to drag his sorry ass to the bed, plopping him on it. He noticed with amusement she'd seen fit to put a few towels down over the coverlet.

"Everyone's okay."

She darted out of the room once more, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of Gatorade and a straw. She propped him up with pillows, looking at him intently until he sighed and reach for the drink. The sugar would go him good, in any case.

"What happened to you, Belle?" He was still dizzy enough not to carefully think about everything he said. "I mean, why did you make a deal with me? What happened with Vivienne?"

For a horrible moment he thought she'd clamp up and leave, question unanswered, while he lay there, open and vulnerable. After a while, however, she haltingly told him about her friendship with Merle Monmouth, up and comer at the Justice Department, and how he'd confided in her about his research on Vivienne Lake's criminal empire as he'd grown fearful and distrustful, suspecting that he was being watched. He'd slipped the disk with information on an old copy of his of Le _Morthe d'Arthur_ , a copy he'd inherited from his own father, and left the book in the Return box of the library. She'd cracked open a few files before she'd heard of his death and had seen enough in them to put the pieces together and gone with what she had to Emma Swan, only to be told that it wasn't enough, and the bureau was pursuing another more promising source of information.

"Emma did her best, I'm sure, but it soon became clear she wasn't going to be able to protect me. I had to find a way to protect myself."

Again, he felt that something was dreadfully wrong with her story, but he detected no deceit from her, no artful pretence like he'd glimpsed from her recently. In the dead of night, it seemed she became a little less reserved, more relaxed, likely owing to his own less guarded state. It was frightfully easy then to remember what had made him mad for her years ago, what had made him lose himself in another so. The intimacy, the unmistakable feeling of safety, of being two against the world, was heady to him, someone who'd learned early and the hard way that no one was to be trusted.

"Are the painkillers kicking in? Do you fell much pain?"

He shook his head- a lie through and through, the two stab wounds felt faintly like they were on fire and each time he breathed he pulled on the stitches. Belle raised an eyebrow, shook her head, and brought one hand to his forehead.

"You don't seem to have a fever, but I'll stay a little while longer, just to keep an eye on you."

"You don't have to. You must be tired. Did I wake you?"

Now that he thought about it he doubted it. Belle was more of a morning person, not someone prone to staying up late, but lately he'd noticed that whenever he came home late her light was over on, the faint glow of it coming from beneath their connecting door. Sometimes he'd knock softly on the door to wish her goodnight then spend a long time after falling in bed second-guessing himself from doing so. Which led to him berating himself over letting Belle slip into his thoughts more often, and with an ease that was worrying.

It was easy to justify to others the odd times when something caught his eye and he purchased it thinking it'd please her. After all it was part of the facade they needed to keep. Doting on a mistress was nothing to raise one’s eyebrows over. So, what if some of the gifts where not what would be expected? Sometimes a book, sometimes a paperweight- Belle collected them, as did her mother before her, though most of that collection was gone now- sometimes a pastry. It was playing the over-indulgent fool, perhaps, but that in and on itself that did not matter. It was the increasing lack of pretence in it that was keeping him awake at night, that made him notice every time he sought her out in the house with some excuse or the other, or the way he sometimes noticed her wearing a particular colour he liked or item he'd gifted her and caught himself wondering for a split second if she'd done so to please him.

He'd thought being self-aware would protect him. That not going into things blindly, rather showing her the ugly truth of his life in full colour and detail, would keep him safe from whatever it was about Belle fucking French that completely undid him. He'd sat in front of her, taking in her sorry appearance and the quiet desperation she exuded, and had thought himself in possession of the upper hand, in total control of the situation.

He'd been a fool.

"Do you mind if I read in here for a bit? I really want to make sure you're not going to run a fever for a few more hours at least and I'm in such a good part of my book. Agnieszka has just been chosen by the Dragon to be spirited away to his tower."

He'd forgotten how easy sleep came with Belle nearby. Something about the lotion she used right before sleep, perhaps, or the warmth radiating off her body, or the small sounds she made as she read. One moment he was wide awake, breathing through the pain and trying to gather the strength to tell her to leave him be, to get himself out of what felt like an even more dangerous situation than he'd been in a few hours ago, and the next he was deeply asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Something had been brewing for a while. He had pieced together the signs, with a little help from Jefferson's ear to the ground- he had a vast network of informants and a penchant for hacking, with a great nose for secrets- and a lot of money slipped into the right hands. The underworld was abuzz with rumours of Vivienne Lake empire's impending demise, with the law closing in on her. Sniffing weakness several bosses were thinking on moving in on her territory. This in itself wasn't a problem, except for the potential it had to make someone a little bit too powerful. Powerful enough, he thought, to try to dethrone him and take over the Eastern Coast almost entirely.

It was easy to conclude Albert Spencer was the small fish trying to make a move on Lake. If he were smart he'd plan the takeover with care and take his time to settle, to fish out the elements that remained loyal or that could potentially stir up trouble and wait till things settled down to see what his next move should be. But Spencer was impatient, forceful and blunt in ways that had worked for him in the past, when he played in the minor leagues and things were simply a matter of brute force and who had more of it. His ambition, however, had finally exceeded his capabilities. He had no head for the games and the manipulations needed to be at the top, no finesse for the tactics, strategies and careful, slow-unfurling machinations that were necessary in the upper tiers of their business.

His connection to Governor Blanchard was what kept had kept him out of legal trouble for years, considering his lack of subtlety, his brutal approach at things. The way he saw it most of Blanchard's campaign money came from Spencer, one way or the other, so authorities of all types were instructed to look the other way or investigate elsewhere when his name cropped up. To his credit he'd never been caught in anything too awfully compromising either.

He was sure, and the more he heard the more he became convinced of it, that Spencer planned to move in on his territory either before or after acquiring Lake's, but if true he couldn't possibly be thinking of doing it alone. Doing it at all was stupid enough. It became paramount to discover who he was dragging down with him. Whoever it was, he was sure, was smart enough to have figured out they could back Spencer up from the shadows and then swoop in in the chaos that followed to double-cross him and take it all. Spencer's position would be weak enough to warrant it, for sure.

Stelle Feé was the most likely candidate, and Jefferson had uncovered promising leads regarding her. Her drug money should have been exactly what Spencer was looking for, and she had no love for Gold himself. She was not allowed on his turf, after all, which she had always resented. Any whiff of her special little concoction- just the name, Fairy Dust, was enough to make him snarl- in his territory was enough for him to send one or two of Stelle's operatives back to her in body bags. He'd done the job himself on one or two occasions, just to make sure he was delivering a proper message... in pieces.

Taking both of them head-on would put much of a strain in his resources, and he'd decided to make a grab for Lake's territory himself. He was happy with what he had, and had not wanted more, but he'd grown tired of Lake, and sharing borders with her had become a nightmare. Nobody that was set to replace her appealed to him. So, he had to conserve resources, which meant getting someone else to take his side. After going through his options, he set up a meeting with Raymond Midas. Though they weren't exactly what he'd call friends- no one was, in his line of work- they'd done good business together in the past and they respected each other. He could offer to split Lake's territory with him. He knew Midas was looking to expand, to extend his influence beyond the reach he had now.

It was arranged the way the most important things were in his line of work, through back channels and in hushed voices, the meeting to happen after dark. He went about things like nothing was wrong, knowing that he could not let his people catch even a glimpse of the tension he felt. But Belle stared at him throughout dinner as if all of his fears and his doubts were plainly written across his face. He felt a surge of anger at the thought that she should know him so well after so many years, and after having ended the relationship claiming he was "not who she'd thought he was".

He wondered how aware she could possibly be about what was unfolding all around her. In social functions she behaved like she was expected to: she was pretty, she chattered amicably with the other trophy women around her, stood by his side when he required it of her and did not make any waves, save for that first night. She'd never seemed to him overly-intrusive, or like she was listening in on conversations or fishing for information.

But often she had shared a few titbits of information, extracted from apparently-inane conversation with other mistresses and wives, that had given him new insight into happenings around him, a crucial part of the puzzle he'd missed. And she'd seemed tense as of late, something perhaps not obvious as it once had been. Years before, when they had first met, Belle had used to wear her heart on her sleeve. It wasn't the case anymore, but he could still read her somewhat, especially when she felt something strongly enough.

She was listless enough to linger around after dinner, fidgeting in a way he remembered distantly, something he'd forgotten he'd found endearing about her. Over time he'd blocked a lot of the fonder memories and her little quirks, somehow. For a second, as she absentmindedly tugged at his coat, as if to straighten it, he had the sudden and painful urge to kiss her. It lasted the blink of an eye, but it was unsettling nevertheless.

"Don't wait up for me, dearest."

He'd meant it to sound mocking, yet it didn't quite come out like that. If she noticed she didn't make any comment, retreating to the safety of her room as he lingered uselessly in the doorway for a minute or so before making his way to his town car, a nondescript black Mercedes.

"Gotta be glad when this is over, boss. Crew's been awfully tense."

Dove was his usual driver, but he'd assigned him to Belle full time after they’d struck their deal. Since then he'd switched to Tamara. Woman could drive like you only saw in the movies and she had a sharp aim. Better yet she knew how to keep her distance, and how to make people not notice her. Any other day he wouldn't have minded the innocent quip, the non-intrusive attempt at getting a bit of info out of him. This night, however, he was having none of it.

"Just drive, Tamara."

* * *

Everything had seemed to go smoothly at first. Even though private meetings were always messy in terms of logistic and tense with suspicion and second-guessing Gold felt relatively safe with Midas. They had never been rivals and had managed a few lucrative partnerships over the years. The man was grooming his daughter to take his place and was always proud to tell whoever wished to hear all about her early accomplishments, but Abigail was not with him that night.

"Us old men can sometimes understand each other better."

It should have been his first clue that something was wrong, but he hadn't picked up on it.

After the necessary cigars and small talk, they had gotten right two things. His men flanked him behind, with Jefferson the closest, always looking relaxed, though he knew the man missed little and was always ready for action. Midas had his own men behind him, a few he recognised and a few he didn't. High in the ranks, taking into account how close he was to Midas himself, was a rather young man, who he had seen shadowing Miss Midas from time to time. It looked like he'd risen in the ranks.

They'd spent around half an hour discussing the situation at hand when his cell phone- placed on the middle of the table alongside Midas's, a gesture of trust, had started ringing. Belle's name and picture flashed across the screen, visible to both men.

"Ah, I see what's been keeping you young. We can't take five if you need a little time with your... companion."

He said it cordially, but he could detect the slightest hint of mocking, the glint of amusement in the man's eyes. He no doubt thought Gold was addled by the charms of his beautiful and much younger lover. Royce let him, a curious leaden feeling settling in his stomach. There was something wrong.

"Thank you."

He darted out to the balcony before answering the phone, not at all surprised at the panicky tone in Belle's voice. She stuttered something about Jackie, a woman he vaguely knew as a thug for hire but under Spencer's retinue for the past few years, and about how she'd a fallen out with James Spencer. It was all jumbled, and his nerves stood on end as he heard her trying to pull herself together.

"It's Midas. Spencer's partner is Midas. You have to get out."

* * *

Everything was a blur after that. He'd given Jefferson, his second in command, the signal they'd devised long ago for when things were going south, and his people had sprung into action like the well-trained, well-paid henchmen they were. Someone had handed him a Glock at some point, he remembered taking out three of Midas's men with it, beautiful shots to the head. And he distinctively remembered shooting Midas himself, a hole through his right hand. Killing him would be unwise, no need to make an enemy of his daughter. But the injury would remind the old fool never to attempt to side against him again.

He'd called Dr Whale on his way back to the manor. At least three of his men were dead, and most others were in need of medical attention. Whale asked no questions and came prepared with a team of his own and a private facility where to treat those who required more than a simple patch-up job, for which Mrs Potts was more than qualified. She'd managed to turn the entire first floor of his house into a triage area by the time they got there and was clearly butting heads with Whale regarding who was in charge. By her side, surprisingly, was Belle, dressed in rights and a large sweatshirt, doing whatever little task Mrs Potts set her to do. The moment they came in she went straight to Dove. The hulking man had taken a bullet to the shoulder, and another bullet had grazed the side of his head, nicking an ear. While he allowed Whale to poke at him till he could ascertain he was mostly uninjured- the doctor would better concentrate on everyone else after making sure the man footing the bill wasn't going to keel over and leave him high and dry- he stared, agape, as Belle washed Dove's wounds and held his hand as Mrs Potts stitched them up with enviable skill. She did not seem to mind the blood, even though there was a lot of it, nor the absolute certainty that he'd killed people tonight. And that, in an indirect way, she had been the reason why.

He didn't remember how much time he spent watching her flit about, mostly fetching things for Mrs Potts and handing over water and icepacks to whoever asked for it. It felt like an out-of-body experience, and he was only jolted back to reality when she appeared in front of him, as if out of nowhere.

"Come on."

She nudged him into a standing position and, as if he was a child, guided him up the stairs and into his en suite bathroom.

"Take off your coat, suit jacket and shirt. There's blood on your arm, I think it's just a scratch, but I want to make sure."

As if in autopilot he did as she asked, and when she returned, a familiar first-aid kit in her hands, she set to work immediately. He did, indeed, had a scratch on his shoulder. That familiar henchman of Midas had shot at him, but from such a distance and in the midst of such chaos that his aim had been far from perfect. He remembered also returning the favour and managing to hit the man's stomach. He'd crumpled like a rag doll, but he doubted it had been fatal. Not in the right spot to be sure.

"How did you know?"

She didn't answer immediately, and he'd begun to think she hadn't heard him when she began to speak. She told him of Jackie, how she'd met frequently at some of the parties, hanging off of James Spencer's arm. Lately she'd began complaining that he had ditched her for some blonde. But it hadn't been until tonight that Jackie had told her, drunk and crying over the phone, that the "bitch" in question was Abigail Midas.

"But, you see, I saw Miss Midas with Frederick, one of her father's men. They were having a bit of a moment in a balcony. It looked serious, which made no sense. Abigail wouldn't be stupid enough to fool around in front of her new beau, specially considering James's temper. So, I figured out they weren't romantically involved at all, but rather professionally. They were proxies for their fathers, and there's only one reason Spencer would associate with someone right now needing to keep it so quiet."

He wasn't surprised that she knew. He had seen her more than once piece things together using the smallest of clues, had often been amused about how she would quit detective novels halfway through, having found out enough to guess the ending. But he hadn't considered that she'd gain access to important information that he wasn't privy to. It felt almost cruel, to see how compatible they were, how well-matched. Didn't matter when it wasn't real, when in reality Belle could never consider-

"You could have called the cops. You should have called the cops. Isn't that what a law-abiding citizen would do?"

Something was niggling at him, some sort of revelation just out of his reach.

"Don't be daft. I need you free to protect me from Vivienne."

Belle always sounded obfuscated when she lied, he recalled he used to find it strangely endearing.

"I have connections, you know that. I could have gotten out of it."

"Didn't think about that."

Another lie, an obvious one at that. Belle seemed to realise it, because she finished patching up his scratch and began to quickly gather everything back into the first aid kit, eager to be out of his scrutiny.

"That's a fucking lie. Tell me why."

She made to dash past him, but he grabbed her by the arm, trying to be firm but gentle. Her skin was pale and bruised too easily.

"You know who has connections too? Midas. And Spencer." She made an attempt at yanking her arm free, but he kept a hold of it. He felt like she had been avoiding something for months. They both had. Something Belle was afraid that existed. Something he was afraid to hope for.

"Merle and I met at a rehab centre. We were both volunteers. Fairy dust hit Storybrooke hard, taking into account the town's proximity with bigger cities, and I saw enough of the effects on some of my younger patrons to want to become involved. Merle actually built a case against Stella Fée, his first big break. He had made it air-tight, had work months on it. But she was too well-connected, so when the order to shelve it came from higher up he couldn't fight it. Felt horrible about it, thought that volunteering could be a way to atone for it."

Though her eyes were unfocused they suddenly turned towards him, beautiful in their fury. Brighter, somehow.

"Justice is justice. It doesn't always come from the legal system, from those who should impart it. Sometimes monsters are better than heroes."

The more she talked the headier he grew. There was something about what Belle was saying, about her expression, the way her eyes were shadowed and the intensity about her, that called to him. She wasn't broken, he realised, feeling like the truth that was so painfully obvious to him now had been staring at him in the face all along, had lay dormant on the back of his mind for weeks, ever since their reunion. Belle wasn't less than what she was, but more. The person he had loved before so desperately, the one he had chosen to hide himself from in order to be with her, was but a fraction of the real her.

This new Belle, mature from the cruelty of the world, wasn't diminished, or marred, or tainted. She was what Belle was always supposed to become, perfected and polished, nuanced in a way that could only come from experience. The kindness she had retained, which he'd seen her display in a thousand small ways, and her sense of fairness and compassion, were tempered now by her understanding of the complexity of real life, the acceptance of the world as it was, and not as she wished it to be. He wondered whether Belle had ever been as idealistic and pure as he remembered her being years ago, or if that had simply been how he'd seen her at the time, his perception tainted by some romantic notion of finding a light to his darkness, someone who could be good enough for the both of them.

Fuck that. He didn't want just a part of Belle, not now that he saw her as a whole, saw her bitterness, anger and how it drove her past what he remembered being her comfort zone. The Belle he remembered was but a pale, incomplete version of the woman who stood before him. Just as the love had made himself remember feeling for her was but a washed-out, pathetic reflection of whatever he was feeling now, whatever he was burning up with.

When he lounged for her she didn't retreat, and when he bent his head towards her she tilted her face up, wrapping her arms around him as he pressed his lips against her. Relief washed over him at first, the culmination of what was likely months of slow yearning. His body ached, reminding him that barely an hour ago or so he'd been in a veritable fight for his life, but it just added to the moment, made it startlingly real. Belle was as soft and as warm as he remembered, though there was a wonderful forcefulness about her, in the way that she sunk her fingers in his hair and pulled and backed him up against a wall, manoeuvring him to her liking, that surprised him. He was a man accustomed to being in charge. It was how he felt safest, how he preferred to interact with others, what he had strived for ever since he'd been a wee bairn, under the capricious whims of his neglectful father. He'd learned that people weren't to be trusted and that it was best to answer to no one but himself. Giving up control was giving up oneself, and it was to be avoided at all costs.

Having Belle dominate him, however, felt like something else entirely. It was unexpected, for one, since he couldn't remember Belle ever being so forceful. Adventurous, yes, and amazingly enthusiastic, but he couldn't remember ever slamming him against a wall or slapping one of his hands away when it tried to snake around her waist, looking for a little bit of control. In the brief struggle during that first kiss he lost his cane, which left him with no support other than that of the tiny woman pawing at him with single-minded determination. It left him all the more vulnerable, well and truly unbalanced but Belle was so strong and assured beneath him that he could not find it in himself to care, especially when her mouth left his to trail little nips down his throat and lave the spot where his neck met his shoulder, where he was ridiculously sensitive.

There were no words spoken, only grunts and the sound of heavy panting, the occasional whimper thrown in, usually from him. It was painful to remove his undershirt, the fresh wound on his shoulder stinging unpleasantly, but it was by that point a welcomed distraction from the uncomfortable pressure of his pants and underwear against his hard, straining cock. When she unbuckled his belt and tugged down his pants he very nearly sobbed in relief- likely would have if his lips hadn't been too busy trying to put a mark on her neck that would somehow never heal, something that he could see in the morning and reassure himself that it was all real.

By the time she threw him into bed he was naked, grimy and bloody from the fight hours ago, and out of his mind with arousal. She stood in front of him for a moment, still dressed and with more of her wits about her, and he knew that she could simply turn away and end this. He wouldn't follow her, didn't have the strength or the inclination to do so. Whatever this was between them it was hers to see to its end or leave unfinished. If she wished it so he'd pretend it had never happened, no questions asked.

He saw the second it dawned on her, and how it made her pause. They stood on the knife's edge for a moment or two, unsure of what would happen. Slowly, carefully, Belle peeled the top of her pyjama top off, shimming out of her sleeping shorts and panties next. She was pale, that hadn't change, but there was more muscle in her, product of light but constant exercise. He spotted a couple of scars that hadn't been there before, and the way her body matched his more thrilled him in some raw, primal way that completely bypassed his rational mind. She placed her hands lightly on his shoulders as she straddled him, absentmindedly caressing near his neck, applying the slightest bit of pressure in warning when he made an impatient move, as if objecting to her pace. He stilled at once, forcing himself not to wiggle in gleeful satisfaction when she petted her hair as a reward. He was afraid that if she said something that sounded even the slightest bit like "good boy" he'd completely disgrace himself before he ever got to be inside her.

She bent down to kiss him slow and deep, and the way that her hair felt against his chest was achingly familiar, even though so much else about her seemed almost new. The familiarity of it, the sheer safety he felt, was something he could not remember experiencing before. He explored her back, basking in the warmth of her, wanting to see what other parts of her had changed and what remained the same, wanting to do away with whatever remained a mystery between them. The solemn mood turned oddly playful, both of them nipping at whatever bit of skin they could reach, nails gently scraping against sensitive flesh until it was all too much.

When she finally guided his cock into her warm, wet cunt the sensation was almost too painful to feel good, the overstimulation too much to bear. He had to force himself still and breathe deeply. Belle, blissfully, didn't wiggle around once he was fully sheathed into her, rather pausing to let him gather himself. She was breathing heavily, though, and in her expression, he could see an agonized sort of pleasure that mirrored his own. It felt like ages until she started moving, slowly at first, almost timidly, but soon growing bolder and more desperate. He welcomed her enthusiasm, knowing he was not going to last and needing her to finish before he did. Pulling on every last shred of coordination he had he sneaked a hand between their bodies, his long fingers exploring where their bodies were joined, seeking that spot that he remembered kneading countless times before in the past till Belle fell boneless against him.

_"God, there, **yes**." _

Belle moaned loudly, digging her fingernails on his skin. The mixture of pain and pleasure was too much, too much sensation at once, but just as he felt himself tense up, the beginnings of his orgasm simmering in his veins, he felt her flutter against his cock, her muscles tightening deliciously around him. For a moment he felt neither the exhaustion of the day nor the new wounds and blooming bruises. There was only heat and Belle, and the heady feeling of closeness and completion that he felt with her. When she draped herself over him, skin covered in a thin sheet of perspiration, he wrapped himself around her, loving the way she felt on top of him, loose and unguarded. The wariness and tension that he had seen her carry around constantly were gone, replaced by a lazy sort of contentment that tugged at him. When she made a move to get off him he tightened his arms around her, making a vague sound of protest. Smiling faintly at this Belle settled back down, burrowing her head into the crook of his shoulder and closing her eyes, her breath evening out in a matter of minutes. Royce fought to stay awake for a little bit longer, wanting to bask in the moment and the absolute certainty that whatever they had gone through it had been worth it in the end.


End file.
